Chapter 4 How I Met Frank

Marge’s POV

Nowhere, New Mexico

March, 1986

“Marjorie Pruitt, you get back in this house!”

I pulled the front door shut behind me and caught my jacket in it. For one miserable second, I stood on the porch yanking at the denim while Daddy was still shouting on the other side. Then I had to open the damn door again.

He stood in the hallway with my cigarettes in his hand.

“We are not finished.”

“I’m going to be late for work.” I freed my jacket and put it on, shoving my arm into a sleeve hard enough to turn the cuff inside out. “You’ve been telling me what’s wrong with me since I came downstairs. You can finish when I get home.”

His eyes went to my skirt again. I’d cut an inch off it last night, which apparently made the difference between having a daughter and having a disgrace living down the hall. The black tights underneath had done nothing to improve his opinion. Neither had my hair, although he’d already preached about that over breakfast.

“You are not going into town dressed like that.”

“My ass is covered, Daddy.”

“Watch your mouth.”

“Then quit talking about my clothes.”

He came toward the door, and I stepped off the porch before he could get between me and the car. Gravel worked its way into one of my boots. I kept walking, digging in my purse for keys that had somehow gotten underneath everything I owned.

“People know whose daughter you are.”

“They’ve known for nineteen years.”

“And this is how you choose to represent your family?”

I found the keys and turned around. He was standing on the top step, still holding my cigarettes like he intended to enter them into evidence.

“I’m going to scoop ice cream for four hours. I’m not preaching your Sunday sermon.”

“I intend to speak to Mrs. Bledsoe about what she allows her employees to wear.”

That stopped me with my hand on the car door.

“Don’t you come down there and embarrass me.”

“You should have considered that before you walked out of your bedroom.”

I wanted my cigarettes back. I wanted to tell him what he could do with his opinion of my skirt, too, but the kitchen clock had already been against me before he started, and I needed this job. I got into the car and slammed the door. When the engine refused to turn over, I rested my forehead against the steering wheel and gave myself a second to keep from screaming.

Daddy started down the steps.

“Come on, you hateful bitch,” I whispered, turning the key again.

The engine caught before he reached me. I backed out with him calling my name, bumped over the edge of the driveway, and drove away before he could find anything else to object to.

At the first stop sign, I pulled down the visor and checked my hair. The maroon had come out darker than the picture on the box, especially near my scalp, where I’d left it on while I finished painting my nails. There was a stain behind my ear that I hadn’t managed to scrub off. I covered it with a strand of hair, pushed the visor up, and kept driving.

I liked it. I’d liked it last night, too, before Daddy started telling me what every woman in his Methodist congregation was going to say about it. By the time I parked beside the pharmacy, I was tempted to buy another box just to leave it on the bathroom counter.

The wind caught my skirt when I got out. I held it down with one hand and retrieved my purse with the other, then hurried around to the front entrance. Through the window, I could see Mrs. Bledsoe at the register with a woman buying shampoo. A motorcycle sat at the curb, its front wheel turned toward the street.

I was still pulling the door closed behind me when a man shouted from the soda counter.

“Hey! Can I get a vanilla malt down here?”

“You can give me a minute to get through the door.”

The words were out before I turned toward him.

He sat at the far end of the counter with one boot hooked over the stool’s bottom rung, wearing jeans, a gray shirt, and a black leather vest. His sleeves were pushed up his forearms. He had thick dark hair that needed somebody’s fingers in it, and the stubble along his jaw made me want to find out what it would feel like against my mouth.

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

He was older than the boys who came in after school and left pennies under their plates. Quite a bit older. There was grease along the side of his hand, but no wedding ring, which I noticed before I’d even taken my jacket off.

He was hot as fuck, and I’d just snapped at him in front of my boss.

“Wasn’t yelling at you,” he said.

“Well, I’m the one who makes the milkshakes.”

“Then I’m glad you’re here.”

He moved his coffee cup out of my way as I came through the gap behind the counter. I hung my jacket and purse on the hook beneath the shelf, took down my apron, and tried to tie it without looking at him again. One of the strings had twisted around itself. I worked the knot loose while Mrs. Bledsoe finished with her customer.

“Morning, Marge. Wash up, please. I haven’t had a chance to wipe the tables.”

“I’ll do it.”

“And Frank, I told you she was coming.”

“You told me that ten minutes ago.”

She gave him a look over her glasses. “It was three.”

I turned toward the little sink before he caught me smiling. Frank. I could manage that without making a fool of myself. I washed my hands, dried them, and went back to the counter.

Up close, he was even worse. His shirt stretched across his shoulders when he leaned forward, and a scar crossed one of his knuckles. There was dirt beneath a nail he’d evidently tried to clean. My attention moved from his hands to the patch on the front of his vest.

PRESIDENT.

I knew the Sons of Doom patch. Everybody in Nowhere knew that patch. I’d seen their motorcycles outside the bar and heard Daddy complain about them often enough, but I’d never stood this close to the man in charge.

“Vanilla?” I asked.

“With malt. Plenty of it.”

“Anything to eat?”

“Just that.”

I took a metal mixing cup from the rack and opened the ice cream cabinet. He watched me scoop, which should not have made a difference to something I did fifty times a week. I still knocked the scoop against the rim and got a smear of vanilla across my fingers.

“Busy morning?” he asked.

“It’s been loud.”

“Mine, too. Been beating on the same goddamn exhaust since eight.”

“Is that why you’re shouting at women in pharmacies?”

“I was shouting at Bledsoe. He disappeared back there with my spark plug catalog.” He nodded toward the prescription counter. “I’ve got to take it away from him before he orders something his bike doesn’t need.”

From the back of the store, Mr. Bledsoe called, “I can hear you.”

“Then bring my goddamn catalog back.”

Mrs. Bledsoe told both of them to watch their language. I kept my face toward the ice cream while I added the milk and malt powder, then fitted the cup under the mixer. The motor drowned out whatever Frank said next.

I knew most of the regulars, and he wasn’t one of mine. Usually, I had the afternoon shift, when children came in for sodas and mothers collected prescriptions and pretended not to read the magazines beside the register. I had only agreed to cover this morning because Mrs. Bledsoe had asked me, and I wanted the extra money.

I switched the mixer off and filled a tall glass, then set it in front of him with a spoon and the metal cup beside it.

“The rest is in there.”

He took a drink through the straw while I put the milk away. When I turned back, he was taking another.

“Enough malt?”

“Yeah. That’s good.”

I picked up a damp cloth and went around to the tables before I could stand there waiting for him to say something else. There were three along the front window, with sugar ground into one tabletop and a wad of chewing gum stuck underneath another. I scraped the gum off with the edge of a spoon, carried everything back, and found him reading the little handwritten menu behind me.

“You make the sandwiches, too?”

“Unless you want to wait for Mr. Bledsoe to finish shopping for motorcycle parts.”

“What’s good?”

“The grilled cheese. The egg salad’s yesterday’s.”

“You supposed to tell me that?”

“You asked.” I reached beneath the counter for a plate. “You want ham in it?”

“Yeah.”

I plugged in the little grill and took the bread out. He had already finished half his malt by the time I buttered the second slice. I’d skipped most of my breakfast to argue, and the smell of bread starting to toast made my stomach complain.

“Make yourself one,” Mrs. Bledsoe said as she passed behind me with a stack of clean saucers. “You can eat before the lunch crowd.”

“Thank you.”

Frank tapped the empty stool beside him with his hand, then went back to his milkshake. I pretended I hadn’t noticed while I made the second sandwich. When I put his plate down, I gave him the one with more ham.

He picked up half and took a bite, catching a strand of cheese with his thumb before it reached his shirt. I watched him do it and nearly set my own plate on the cloth I’d used to clean the tables.

I put the cloth in the sink, washed my hands again, and carried my lunch around the counter.

“Marge,” he said when I sat down.

“That’s what she calls me.”

“What do you call yourself?”

“Marge. Marjorie if I’m in trouble.”

“Frank Bellandi.” He wiped his hand on a paper napkin before holding it out.

I put mine in it. His fingers closed around my hand, warm and a little rough, and I forgot about the sandwich steaming on my plate until he let go.

“Marge Pruitt.”

He paused with his hand still resting on the counter.

“Reverend Pruitt?”

I picked up my sandwich. “Unfortunately.”

“He your father?”

“Yes, and whatever he’s said to you, I didn’t send him.”

Frank laughed, then reached for his glass. “Wasn’t going to blame you.”

“Most people do. I’m supposed to know where the church key is, what time the women’s meeting starts, and why he hasn’t returned their casserole dishes. Half of them don’t even ask my name.”

“I was going to ask if you had any mustard.”

I laughed with a bite still in my mouth and had to cover it with my napkin. He waited while I swallowed, then accepted the bottle I reached across the counter to get.

“You know him from church?” I asked.

“No.” He put mustard on the corner of his plate. “He’s come by the garage a couple times.”

“For his car?”

“Once.”

I stopped chewing. “What was the other time?”

“Wanted to talk about the club.”

“Oh, Jesus.”

“He came up, too.”

I put my sandwich down before I dropped it. Frank kept eating, but he was smiling now, and I could feel myself doing it back. Daddy would hate that. He’d hate the whole damn thing, from the man’s boots to the way I’d turned on my stool so I could see him better.

“Did you listen?” I asked.

“For a while. Then I had work to do.”

I wanted to know what he’d said to make Daddy leave. I also wanted him to keep looking at me, and I didn’t want to spend another ten minutes talking about my father.

“You always come in this early?”

“When I’m working on this end of town.” He nodded toward my apron. “You don’t.”

“Afternoons, mostly. Saturdays if she needs me.”

He glanced at me again. “You still in school?”

“I finished last spring. I’m nineteen.”

I hadn’t meant to tell him my age quite that quickly. I picked up my sandwich and took another bite so I couldn’t add anything worse.

“Thirty-two,” he said.

I swallowed. “Are you married?”

“No.”

“Good.”

I went back to my sandwich before I could ask anything else. He stayed turned toward me, with one forearm resting on the counter between us, and I let my knee touch his while I reached for a napkin.

A woman came in with two little boys, and I slid off the stool before Mrs. Bledsoe had to call me. The smaller one wanted chocolate ice cream until his brother ordered strawberry. Then he wanted strawberry, too, and started crying because he’d already said chocolate.

I leaned my forearms on the counter so he could see me over it.

“I haven’t scooped anything yet, honey. You can still change your mind.”

He sniffed and looked at his mother.

“Strawberry,” she said. “Both of them.”

I gave him a little extra on top because his brother’s cone looked bigger. While they chose a table, I carried Frank’s empty plate to the sink and checked whether he wanted anything else.

“Just the bill.”

I dried my hands on the towel and added it up, taking longer than I needed to over figures I knew by heart. He had finished the malt, including what was left in the metal cup. There was no reason for him to stay.

Mr. Bledsoe finally brought the catalog out and set it beside him.

“I marked a page.”

“Of course you did.” Frank opened it where the corner was folded, shook his head, and tucked it inside his vest. “Bring the bike by. Let me look at what you’ve got before you buy anything.”

“When?”

“Tomorrow.”

I put the bill down between them. Frank counted out his money while Mr. Bledsoe went back to the prescription counter. I took it to the register, rang it up, and tried to convince myself I wasn’t disappointed over a man I’d known for less than half an hour.

When I returned with his change, he was standing. I had to lift my chin to look at him.

“What time do you finish?” he asked.

“One.”

He took the bills off the little tray and left the coins. “You got plans?”

I could have told him about the laundry waiting at home or the argument I was going to have as soon as I walked through the door. Instead, I put my hand on the counter because I suddenly didn’t know what else to do with it.

“Depends on what you’re asking.”

“Come for a ride with me.”

My eyes went to the motorcycle through the window. I’d been on the back of a boy’s dirt bike once, bouncing across a field while he tried to show off. I’d made him stop and let me walk back. This was a much bigger motorcycle, and Frank was standing close enough that I could see a small spot of vanilla on his thumb.

“Where?”

“Out of town. We can take the long way back.”

“I have a car here.”

“It’ll be here when we get back.”

I was looking at his hands again when the bell above the door rang. Mrs. Bledsoe greeted the new customer, and the smile went off my face before I turned around.

“Morning, Reverend.”

Daddy stood just inside the doorway. He had put on his good jacket. Apparently, getting me in trouble at work required dressing for the occasion.

His eyes passed over my apron, stopped on Frank, and stayed there.

“Bellandi.”

Frank turned toward him. “Reverend.”

I set the change tray under the counter. Daddy took two steps toward us, with Mrs. Bledsoe watching from beside the register and both little boys suddenly interested in something other than their ice cream.

“Marjorie. I need to speak to you outside.”

“I’m working.”

“I can see how busy you are.”

Frank had stopped smiling. I could feel him beside me, waiting, but he didn’t answer for me or tell Daddy to leave. I pulled the towel from the pocket of my apron and folded it once between my hands.

“I’ll talk to you when I get home.”

“You will come outside when I ask you to.”

Mrs. Bledsoe put down the receipt she’d been holding. I didn’t look at her. If she told me to go, I would have to, and Daddy knew it.

“Please don’t do this here,” I said.

He pointed toward the door.

I put the towel down and turned back to Frank.

“One o’clock,” I told him. “I’ll be ready.”